


The Rube Goldberg Variations

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kink meme prompt: <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/12989.html?thread=29458877#t29458877">One is a rock star and one is a groupie.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rube Goldberg Variations

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely sirona_sg. May contain steampunk-themed amateur college opera.

The couple behind Eames is discussing gender politics in the steampunk genre. At least, this is Eames' best guess, since the last two words he caught were 'airship' and 'patriarchy' and, well.

He considers asking them to quiet down, but the concert is still at the bit where two ladies pretend to be angry Norse gods screaming at each other. If 'concert' is the right word for a show that takes place in an empty class long after all students went to party somewhere, in front of three intent-looking young women, the Victorian Robofetish brigade, and Eames.

Eames is feeling ever-so-slightly out of place.

~~

It wasn't like Eames to feel out of place. He's naturally comfortable anywhere, most particularly places he shouldn't be. This was why he didn't, at first, notice the class' cold response to his witty contributions to the debate.

He didn't, that is, until the (scorching hot) guy sitting next to him said, "This isn't fucking Debate team. This isn't even the subject. Shut the fuck up or I'll end you." He said it quietly, in an utterly calm voice that probably no one but Eames heard over the TA's increasingly flustered attempts to steer the conversation back to the original topic.

Eames' voice could be heard across the room when he said, "Yes, but what he just said about Chomsky isn't just a gross oversimplification, it's plainly untrue when you take into account—"

"I'd give a fuck about that," the guy said, "if this was actually a class about linguistics and not “Intro to Automata and Formal Languages”." Still quiet, but his voice rang clear in the sudden silence.

"Ah," Eames said, a bit weakly. "So this isn't “Intro to Language”?"

"No," said Hot Guy, who was in fact so cold that icicles wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"I see." Eames got up and brushed invisible dust off his non-existent coat. "Carry on, then."

~~

He's actually considering leaving for a moment, but then the ladies stop singing and Arthur walks in, carrying an electric piano bigger than he is. They pause the show momentarily while he sets up, because it's that kind of setting and nobody seems to mind.

Arthur cracks his knuckles, and Eames sits back with a happy sigh.

It's not just that Arthur's gorgeous, although Eames can, would, and has in the past stared at him for hours on end. The concentration on his face, followed by the calm that takes over once he starts playing; the tiny smile that shows when he does something particularly tricky; the shift of his shoulders as his fingers move – oh, his fingers, just looking at them makes Eames bite his lip in appreciation.

But it's more than that.

~~

It took Eames maybe two days to finish licking his wounded pride.

"Until you stopped sulking, you mean," Ariadne said, waving a pencil at him.

"Have some respect for your elders, brat." He mussed her hair and stole a sip from her cappuccino. "It was a mortifying, tragic scene."

"Tragically _funny_ ," she contradicted. "Or at least that's the way Dom's friend tells it."

Eames groaned. "For crying out loud, not _Dom_ again." It was bad enough that Ariadne had to be friends with half the TAs in the faculty. That the one who happened to be her _boyfriend_ was also friends with all the weirdest people on campus was not to be borne, since Ariadne was Eames' best friend and consequently Eames found himself socializing with people he wouldn't want his parents to even know _existed_.

Then he blinked and rewound the sentence. "Wait. Who told you what?"

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "You know Dom's friend Arthur?"

Eames did, although in the privacy of his mind he'd nicknamed said friend Arthur Doesn't, as in: Arthur doesn't smoke, Arthur doesn't drink, Arthur doesn't go out on school nights. As a result of which Eames had never actually clapped eyes on Arthur, and therefore had developed several amusing theories, such as: Arthur doesn't enter anywhere uninvited, because he's actually a vampire. Arthur doesn't ever arrive anywhere late, because time would bend before Arthur did. Arthur doesn't need such frivolities as food, air and water to exist, because Arthur is the goddamned Batman.

"Well, he told me all about it," Ariadne said. "Hey, now you can't say you never met him."

"Ariadne." Eames tried to say it gently, because Ariadne was young and still easily traumatized by yelling. "There were two hundred sodding people in that class. Why should I remember one of Dom's bizarre friends?"

"Hey," Ariadne protested. "You're one of Dom's friends, too."

"A fact I'd rather not dwell on. Name one," Eames raised a finger for emphasis, "friend of his, present company excepted, that isn't a complete nutcase."

"Besides Arthur—"

"Whom I've never met," Eames interjected.

Ariadne stuck her tongue at him. "Shut up already. Besides him, there's Yusuf—"

"Yusuf isn't Dom's friend. He's my friend that Dom nicked." Eames was not bitter in the least.

"—And there's Mal." Ariadne gave Eames a smug look.

Eames saw her smug and raised her his best skeptic expression. "Is there? I thought we weren't supposed to talk about Mal anymore."

Ariadne sighed. "Just not around Dom. Honestly, that man, you'd think she'd died rather than gone back to France."

"Dom's impending insanity aside," Eames said with great politeness, "how the bloody fuck was I supposed to tell his friend Arthur from the other one-hundred-ninety-nine math geeks in the crowd?"

Ariadne's smile was wide enough that Eames had worries about the structural integrity of her face. "Because he managed to brow-beat you into submission in less than five minutes. And made quite an impression, if the last two days are anything to go by."

"Wait. That asshole is Arthur?" Eames blinked. "Huh. Does that mean you have his number?"

Ariadne didn't. She did know, however, that he was playing piano for the school's vocal ensemble. And the rest, as they said, was history.

~~

The show's hostess, a horribly bouncy plump blonde that Eames can't look at when he has a hangover, takes up the microphone. "Thank you, ladies, gentlemen, little furry creatures from Alpha Centaury!"

"I object to your gender binaries!" yells the Clockwork Radical from behind Eames.

The hostess ignores him completely. "And now, I'm proud to present the author of our latest compositions, now performing his own work – Arthur Lake, ladies and gentlemen! And others!"

There is the sound of five hands clapping. Very Zen, Eames thinks.

Arthur unleashes a tiny smile at the audience, most of which has gone back to discussing the racial implications of Phil Foglio's work.

Eames is rapt.

By all rights, his ears should be bleeding. Eames bloody hates classical, and adding in spaceship noises and faux-human vocals should at best turn it into so-bad-it's-good. Especially when the hostess and the two former angry Norse gods join in what definitely isn't harmony.

Arthur makes it work.

It has no rhythm whatsoever, it's soft and discordant and downright weird – for the love of God, are they singing in _Ladino_? – but Arthur makes it beautiful, and Eames falls in love with that contradiction, like he has for every Wednesday these past three months.

~~

Nobody with even the remotest trace of cool ever went to hear the school's vocal ensemble. Just as well, Eames figured. Less chances of running into anyone he knew.

As the show began, Eames realized why no one he knew would be caught dead at the ensemble's performance: namely, they sucked. Oh, they were certainly trying, bless their little hearts: The little soprano on the end of the row screeched her notes so earnestly that Eames could see down her throat with a perfect clarity he rather regretted.

Eames could at least console himself by watching Arthur. Arthur was every bit as stunning as Eames remembered, even with the utterly bored expression he wore. Eames suspected the latter was due to the fact that the band was singing a minimalist version of _Amazing Grace_ that required Arthur to play one chord of the lead on every beat.

Arthur, Eames reflected, looked marvelously dignified for someone playing piano for an a cappella group.

And then, wonder of wonders, Arthur must have recognized Eames. Either that, or he was having a stroke, because he started making _faces_ at Eames.

He thought at first maybe Arthur was looking at someone else. Maybe Dom had sneaked up behind Eames when he wasn't looking – hah, there was someone who deserved having faces made at him. But no, it was only bored freshmen as far as the eye could see.

Eames thereby withdrew any opinion on Arthur as dignified.

When Arthur crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue simultaneously at him, Eames had to retaliate. He wiggled his ears at Arthur. Then, fearing he had been too subtle, Eames scrunched up his nose and bent his mouth into a shape that had all his baby cousins running away shrieking.

Arthur touched his tongue to the tip of his nose while still pounding out D, G, D, G. Eames couldn't figure out if he was more horrified or turned on.

He had to decide on the latter, though, because of the three things that happened next: The ensemble finally shut up; Arthur's face snapped back into serious, focused attention; and he started playing for real.

For five minutes of solid piano music, there wasn't anything else. The ensemble, the endless rows of freshmen, the pigeons nesting in the roof – all of it disappeared. There was only the music, and Arthur's hands on the keyboard. Eames wished he’d stood closer. He wanted to see Arthur's fingers so bad it burned.

After it was over – Eames had regained the power of movement sometime during the Dean's speech – he sauntered over to where Arthur was packing his gear.

"Hullo," he said. Not the suavest start, but the man had been contorting his face at Eames not moments ago.

"Hey," Arthur said. "You're the idiot who can't read a time table."

Eames swallowed over his wounded pride. "I'd say something sarcastic in return, but I'm afraid your performance has robbed me of the power of speech."

"Really." There was a dry quirk to Arthur's lips. Too dry. That was the only reason Eames wanted to kiss him, truly. "Come see me, then," he said, and handed Eames a piece of paper. He left before Eames could form a proper response.

Eames examined the piece of paper, which had turned out to be a flier. It said, in a desperately jolly font, "I Sing The Body Hydroelectric!"

The dreadful pun should have convinced Eames to have done with it. However, Arthur had scrawled a room number and a time on the bottom, and by the time Eames realized it wasn't actually a phone number he had already committed himself mentally.

~~

Eames can never really listen to anything else while Arthur's playing, but he does notice the room gradually quieting down. When Arthur finishes, everyone claps for real.

Arthur gets up, smiles and takes a bow. Instead of sitting back down next to the piano, he walks to the side of the room, where a bearded guy in a metal tee-shirt fiddles with a laptop, some cables and what looks like a miniature version of Skynet. The hostess decides to follow suit and yells, "Break! Show continues in ten!"

The Mechanosexual Assembly gathers by the door, where one scruffy-looking guy shows the rest how he’d glued clockwork gears to his wristwatch. Arthur hands the bearded guy a PL connector. The hostess ambles over to look at the work, bending over and incidentally almost shoving her cleavage in Arthur's face.

Right. Enough is enough. Eames gets up.

"Darling," he greets Arthur. Arthur grunts and doesn't take his eyes off the laptop screen.

"How's the recording?" the hostess asks. "I'll die if we didn't get it _again_. I love your compositions so much, Arthur, I wish you could play for us more often."

Arthur smiles at her, still ignoring Eames, who wants to kill the hostess a little. "I think you can live today," Arthur says, and his voice is dry but warm.

 _Arthur's warm all over,_ a traitorous voice whispers in the back of Eames' mind. _He wants you to think he's cold, but it's a lie, a bloody lie, especially now when his cheeks are a little flushed, his mouth a little red. He's still excited from performing._

Eames can't help himself placing a hand on Arthur's lower back, where his shirt has ridden up just the tiniest bit. Arthur freezes.

"No sexual harassment on the premises," the bearded guy says amiably.

The hostess grins at Eames. "I understand completely," she says. "But c'mon, he's still got two songs tonight and I want him in operating condition."

It's no concern of Eames’ how she wants Arthur, but the look Arthur is giving him is not the promising kind. Eames removes his hand and goes back to his seat, while the hostess herds the singers back onto the stage.

~~

There were more people at that first show Eames attended, a roomful of people with too-loud voices and no bloody sense of personal space.

He sat at the first row, on edge from slight claustrophobia. His first urge would have been to disappear in the back, but if he was going through with this, then by _God_ he was going to burn the image of Arthur's playing hands into his brain.

The host at that show was a short, stuttering man who begged the audience to "Enjoy the Firesheep Group's first completely original production, “Leviathan VS Pirates”!"

The lead singer snatched the microphone from him. "Hi, everyone!"

There were some cheers.

"So this is our first all-original performance, right? So I want you all to thank the guy who made it possible – stand up, Arthur, let them take a good look at you." She held Arthur's hand up in the air so that he had the choice of rising or losing an arm.

Eames could see the half-exasperated, half-proud quirk of Arthur lips as the singer urged him to wave at the audience. He could see the awkward shift in balance as Arthur rose too fast, as he held on to a railing that was millimeters away from Eames' arm.

Eames, it appeared, had chosen his seat well.

The first part was unaccompanied, so Eames entertained himself by reading the show booklet. The self-proclaimed booklet was actually two A4 papers, printed on both sides in slightly too small font. It may as well have been printed in Linear-B on genuine Sumerian clay for all Eames could understand of it.

Apparently, the wandering Jew (tenor) had blundered unto the deck of the Flying Dutchman, and convinced them to turn to a life of piracy, on the grounds that if they were doomed to wander the seas forever, they may as well get some plundering done while they were at it. The captain (the booklet said bass, but he was played by a rather chirpy mezzo) led his men across the seven seas, having adventures and making bad puns.

That was the back story. Eames' head was aching already.

The first act opened with a Narrator (tenor, or at least a passable alt) looking for his Lost Beloved on the shores of the ocean. At which point Arthur started playing, and Eames lost track of the plot altogether.

Later, he had vague memories of super-intelligent pterodactyls, clarinet-playing sirens, and a time-traveling French walrus with a hook for his left tusk. It's entirely possible that these were images Eames' mind had come up with in self-defense against the sheer bloody brilliance of Arthur's music.

When it was over, after Eames had metaphorically picked his jaw up from the floor, he made his way to where Arthur was sitting and chatting with the rest of the performers. Or rather, make that sitting and smiling hugely while the rest of the performers chatted.

Arthur had dimples. Eames' knees weakened.

The smile, however, vanished as soon as Arthur noticed Eames.

"That was a good show," Eames said, just to Arthur. The rest of the cast pretty much ignored them.

Arthur didn't smile again, but looked like he was considering it. "I know."

Eames wanted – he didn't know what; or rather, he wanted too many things. To gush at Arthur like the most flailing of fangirls. To muss his hair. To kneel between Arthur's legs and kiss him until he smiled like _that_ again. Or, if there was kneeling involved – he had a few other things in mind that could make Arthur smile. Eames wasn't picky.

"I'll leave you to your post-recital glow, then." Eames turned to leave, and started when Arthur grabbed his hand.

"Thank you," Arthur said.

The surprise in Eames' expression was, for once, utterly unfeigned. "Whatever for?"

"For," Arthur swallowed. "For not asking me why I'm doing this." He didn't say 'wasting my time', but Eames heard it loud and clear, implicit in his tone.

"You do it because it's beautiful," Eames said, because that was _obvious_.

Arthur looked at the rest of the cast, still oblivious, and moved slightly away. "It's ridiculous," he said softly. "It makes absolutely no sense. It's all one big in-joke."

"I fail to see the contradiction," Eames said, and felt the satisfaction of a mission successfully accomplished as Arthur's mouth widened into a grin.

~~

The show is good. It's _Arthur_ , and therefore always good. Eames can't even stay mad at the hostess.

When it's over, Eames gets up and stands by Arthur’s side as he's coiling cables and sliding sheet music back into its tidy little folder. He'd offer to help, but he knows by now from experience that Arthur never lets anyone else touch his equipment.

Eames would make a lewd joke about that, but it's too much like his life at the moment, and would just make him despondent.

"Do you need a ride?" he asks Arthur once he's all packed.

"I live on campus," Arthur says, slightly bewildered.

Eames bites his lip. Fuck this. "Come to mine, then."

Arthur blinks at him, like this is unexpected, like this is some kind of huge fucking surprise. As if Eames hadn't come to all his concerts, as if Eames hasn't been placing increasing pressure on Dom to get Arthur to grace them with his presence.

Arthur's mouth opens and closes, and Eames can't stand to watch it. Trouble is, he can't stand to walk away, either. Not until he hears the 'No' from Arthur's own lips. Eames settles for looking at his shoes.

"Why would you want to?" Arthur says, in a small voice.

Eames gapes at him, because he doesn't know where the _fuck_ to even start answering that question.

"I mean," Arthur says, coughing as if to cover up what he'd just said, "look at you. You're – there's not a day I see you on campus without twelve different girls trailing after you. Or guys," he says, hand gesturing abortively at Eames' open mouth. "Whatever, the point stands. You're hot. You're popular. You're—"

"Ridiculous," Eames says, quietly. "Ask anyone."

The corner of Arthur's mouth curves the tiniest faction of a degree upwards.

"My closest friend is Dom-fucking-Cobb's girlfriend," Eames says, encouraged. "It's common knowledge that all of Cobb's friends are weirdoes."

"Thanks," Arthur says, dry as dust, but Eames can tell he's trying hard not to smile.

"Perfectly welcome." Because he's wanted to do it for ages, Eames trails a finger down Arthur's face, tracing the line of the cheekbone, pausing just before his lips.

"So," Arthur breathes. "What you're saying is, us weirdoes should band together?"

"No," Eames says, with perfect honesty. "What I'm saying is that if I don't kiss you right now, I'll—"

He still doesn't know what he meant to say when Arthur seals his mouth over his, but he doesn't begrudge the loss in the least.


End file.
